C is cookie...

We judge ourselves really harshly. I'd be genuinely curious to know who doesn't believe this of themselves - I've been actively working on showing myself grace for the last few years, and it's helped me be compassionate toward others, but it makes me realize just how cruel I've been inside my own head.

I already posted before about calling something 'Boris', and I try to continue ascribing to that mentality. Something is more than nothing. You can't edit a blank page. Perfection is the enemy of good enough. Assume everyone you meet is doing their best, and everyon's best looks different.

It's hard. I'm impressed when I meet people who exhude calm and patience and generally seem to not let things bother them. I know that sometimes, that's come from hard, hard work. It's a skill like any other - some people can do carpentry, some can fix machines, some can stay calm in traffic.

I've gone through some of the older scenes I've written through the years and it's been interesting to see where my mind was. A few of them I didn't even recognize as mine and tried to figure out which friend wrote and sent it to me before some sentence jogs a memory of it being mine. The writing isn't bad, and I can tell I've improved. That feels good. Unlike many, I like editing - I get to clean up a scene to make it closer to the reality I've built for it, find the best words, clean up the sentence structure so that the reader doesn't get confused. I like it.

Writing is what you make of it. There is no 'right'. There's just 'done'.


Word of the Day: Appurtenance: A complementary, but not necessary, accessory. https://www.wordgenius.com/words/appurtenance


I watched the older women with awe. It would be years before I came into my full figure, though I had all but reached my final height. My knees and elbows seemed to lead the rest of me through any space and I still tripped over any flat surface that dared make my path. The women around me were comfortable in their forms. They had bloomed after the frantic blossoming of middle-youth and the budded adolescence I now inhabited like the most awkward of stilt-walking giraffes.

Everyone I saw had deeply etched laugh-lines and boasted wrinkles. They were soft and loose, enjoying the comfort they had finally built in a body that took a lifetime to get to know. Graceful and confident, each knew what they liked and felt no requirement to perform or showcase - they only dressed in a way they found comfortable, in colors that brought them joy and with whatever fun appurtenance they thought they or others would best enjoy.

"Placing bets, darling?" a woman said as she settled at my table.

I blushed deeply. "You're all so lovely," I told her.

The woman grunted in agreement. "It takes a lifetime to learn how to live and I think most of us have it in hand now. Or nearly."

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Seventy-six," she preened. "And you're not nineteen yet, I'd bet."

"Not by three months," I agreed.

"What do you love?"

"Music. Climbing mountains. Poetry. Braiding rope."

"Those are good starts. Taste anything this world has to offer you, lovey. You never know what might refresh your soul if you only feed it the local fodder." She stood. "And don't forget to love thoroughly and often with whomever fevers your nethers!" She cackled and stomped away to another table. I had no doubt they were telling the bawdiest tales, judging by the tone of laughter -- and they way they looked at me with my ears steaming worse than any hot spring.

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